Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Father Benedict was there. He said I should have it looked at to ensure it was completed correctly.’

‘That is understandable. One cannot be too careful with one’s immortal soul.’

‘And so I showed it to you.’ Anne had a sudden horrible thought that he was jesting at her expense. But if he was, it was not evident in his face, which showed nothing but honest concern.

Arden looked pained, as though trying to recall the event. He sighed deeply. ‘I do not remember this,’ he said at last. ‘If indeed you did hand it to me, I am certain I would have given it back, for it was not mine to hold.’

‘You must see, cousin,’ Will put in, ‘that if such a document were ever to get into the wrong hands it could put Anne in grave danger.’

‘Yes, yes, I see that well enough. I cannot imagine what has happened to it. Would you like me to ask about among those who were there that fine night?’

‘No. We wish no attention drawn to it.’

He nodded. ‘I understand.’ His voice was sympathetic and consoling, but his eyes were not. ‘If only Father Benedict were still with us, for he might have a notion. What a monstrous business it all is. Who would murder such a gentle soul? Such brutality. It has shaken all of us at Arden Lodge. You know he stayed here these past months? I am sure it is safe to entrust you with that knowledge. My wife and daughter are inconsolable. We are waiting for word from the inquest.’

‘They returned a verdict of suicide.’

Arden tutted. ‘I wish I were surprised. It is a travesty. What has become of our once fair country? These are dangerous days. Beware nothing untoward happens to you. .’

Boltfoot was wondering how he would describe this place to his master. It was a large, stone-built house with a fine garden to one side, and isolated. But beyond that he had no notion of its name, or whose it was. His only hope would be to bring Mr Shakespeare here, for he was almost certain he would be able to retrace his steps.

The front door opened in a stream of candlelight. The woman named Anne and her companion emerged. Boltfoot glanced left and saw that the guard was shrinking back into the shadows and he, too, moved away from the wall, into the depths of the orchard.

The man and woman clambered back over the wall. Boltfoot waited until they had passed. He was about to follow them when he spotted the immense figure of the guard scaling the wall after them. Boltfoot ducked back into cover and waited again. The guard was following the couple. Boltfoot tagged on behind the three of them, a chain of runagates passing into the night.

After Will Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway had departed, the inner door to the library opened. Edward Arden lifted his chin to the man who emerged. ‘They’ve gone, Buchan. Did you hear it all?’

‘Aye. You did well. She will be like clay in our hands now. They both will. But the other Shakespeare is the hurdle we must cross. Perhaps it is a shame Mr Somerville missed.’

‘Somerville is a fool. He will do for us all.’

‘Oh, his heart’s in the right place. He will be of value when the time comes.’

From the orchard, they crossed the first of the fields, mud clogging their boots so that every step was as though they were shackled by ball and chain. They were tired now and their energy drained into the unforgiving earth, making their progress slower and slower. Boltfoot adjusted his pace to match. But then things changed. Ahead of him, the guard was lengthening his stride, moving closer to the couple. And now his sword was drawn, and another weapon dangled in his left hand. It was hard to make out in this poor light, but Boltfoot had seen enough battles and skirmishes in his time to know that bloody horror was about to be unleashed.

The signs were all too clear now; had the large man wished to take these people prisoner, he could have done so easily. But he was on a mission to mete out death; that was why he had ventured this far into the countryside, to a place where none would hear but the birds in their nests and the foxes on the prowl. He needed the lonely silence of this remote killing field.

Do not let yourself be known. Do not interfere, merely watch. That was what Mr Shakespeare had told Boltfoot. But how could a man observe a savage murder — two murders — and do nothing?

He drew his dagger and tried to break into a run, but his club-foot dragged in the thick, cloying soil. He was wading, not running. He tripped and almost fell, emitting an involuntary grunt. It was not loud, but in the quiet of the night it was enough to alert the three people ahead of him. He regained his footing and ploughed on through the mud, stumbling forward with the strength and resolve of a plough-horse.

Boltfoot was fifteen yards away now, and the large guard was almost upon the young couple, his short sword ready to strike. Looking over his shoulder, the young man grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her into a loping run.

Behind them, the attacker lifted his left hand. Boltfoot saw the pistol, its muzzle dark and foreboding. He let out a guttural roar and charged. It served to distract the assassin just enough, and alerted the intended victims who threw themselves sideways. The attacker turned round to confront Boltfoot, his sword poised to strike home into his belly and rip the life from him.

Boltfoot was slow and ill-armed and nowhere near as powerfully built as this man. But he had courage and the cunning of a warrior who has survived many fights. He had no intention of allowing his blood to fertilise this black soil.

The sword jabbed at him viciously. He sidestepped it. He would never be a runner, but he was lithe enough and fit. The sword thrust again and this time Boltfoot let it come. The blade skimmed his ribs and Boltfoot drove his dagger down into the forearm. The attacker made a noise, half growl, half groan of pain.

Boltfoot pulled out his dagger and the man’s blood rushed up, spraying across his hand and arm. The attacker kicked out at Boltfoot’s chest, sending him sprawling backwards into the mud. He knew he was done for. He looked up into the cruel, shining eyes and saw the sword raised for a downward strike into his throat. But suddenly the attacker lurched to the left, as if he had been hit violently on the side of the head, and the sword spun away.

Boltfoot did not need a second chance. He rolled to the right. Taking his weight on his left arm, he gained enough purchase to thrust upwards with his right hand, plunging his dagger into the attacker’s belly, just beneath the ribcage. This time there was no groan, but a howl of rage.

The man was not done. Using his undamaged arm, he brought the muzzle of his pistol up and aimed it square into Boltfoot’s face. So this was how he would die, his face blown into blood and torn flesh. Unarmed, with his dagger buried deep in the other man’s body, Boltfoot squirmed backwards.

Another blow struck the attacker’s head. He tried to turn again, realising too late that he was under assault from the young man he had been following. He dropped the pistol into the dirt and his hand went down to the dagger protruding from his upper abdomen. He pulled it from his body and moaned. Blood poured from the wound like a slit pig in the moments before death. He looked at it in disbelief, then looked down again at Boltfoot, sprawled on the ground before him, and seemed about to say something. His lips flapped soundlessly and then he collapsed forward.

The body fell, dead-weight, on to Boltfoot’s left leg, trapping him. Struggling on to his elbows, he leant forward and grabbed hold of the corpse’s hair and shoved him off, then sat in the wet mud, panting with exhaustion.

The young man stood ten yards away. Behind him, shielded by his body, crouched the young woman.